


Smart, Not Clever

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Beck is SUCH AN ASSHOLE, Fake Tony Stark, First Time, Illusions, M/M, Peter is so needy, Praise Kink, far from home compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: “You really think there's anything he wouldn't give you, that you really needed?” he says, instead, and Peter gives up all resistance, just like that, so fucking needy.(AKA: Hey kid, let's try a little 'therapeutic role play, hmm?')





	Smart, Not Clever

“You really miss him, huh?”

Quentin watches as Peter swallows, looks down and away, hiding. Opens his mouth, like he's about to say something, and then stops, swallows forcefully again. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice wavering. “Yeah, I do,” the last word catching, almost breaking

“Ah, jeeze, kid,” Quentin says, and leans over on his stool, wraps his arm around Peter's shoulders. Peter stiffens, resists, and then leans in as well, defeated. “It's ok to grieve, Peter.”

“I should be over this by now,” Peter whispers. “It's just – I just–“ he shakes his head, hard, blinks, but there's still a wet trail down his face, one solitary tear breaking free.

Quentin will never, ever understand how the hell Tony fucking Stark managed to get this kind of loyalty from people.

“There's no expiration date on grief,” he says, keeping his voice low, soothing, kind. “You just hurt and hurt and hurt. And then one day you wake up and you hurt just a little bit less.”

“But what if you don't,” Peter says, “what if you don't, how can I just stop remembering, stop caring? Everywhere I look, I see him, I see how everyone else is mourning him, and I just want to scream at them, it feels- it feels like-” he goes silent, sucking in a ragged breath.

“It feels like what?” Quentin says, actually curious.

“It feels like they're taking him from me,” Peter says, suddenly fierce. “Like, what do they know, how much did they really know him, see him. How can they possibly feel like I do. And then they're all screaming at me, are you going to head the Avengers, are you the next Tony Stark, wanting me to replace him, erase him, and I hate it, I hate it so much. How could anyone possibly replace him?”

Quentin can feel the bitterness swell up inside him. How could anyone replace the golden boy Tony Stark, warmongering, butchering, king of death Tony Stark, hailed as a hero over and over. Never mind that there were plenty of people waiting to do better, people that made Tony Stark; never mind them.

“I just wish,” Peter is rambling on; _god, he's such a melodramatic teenager, how is he supposed to lead anything?_ “I wish I could just talk to him one more time, just once, just ask him what he meant, tell him how I'm so, so-” Peter breaks off

Quentin rubs his hand up and down Peter's back. It's risky, this idea that's popped into his head, but on the other hand, it might give him more than the glasses. “You're so what?” he asks.

Peter just shakes his head. “I just want to see him again,” he says.

Quentin waits until Peter can see him, then opens his mouth, like he's about to say something. Hesitates, obviously, and then closes his mouth and shakes his head just a little. Peter's eyes snap to him, caught

“What?” he says. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” Quentin says. “It's just – never mind, it's a bad idea.”

“No, what?” Peter insists, hooked.

Quentin hesitates, and then says, “There's a, ah, sort of technology, I guess you'd understand it as an illusion, but it's more sensory than that, from my dimension. We use it as a weapon, sometimes, but more often it's sort of a therapy device.”

Peter nods his head, a little. “Tony made something kind of like that,” he says, “gave it some funny name.”

_Made it,_ Quentin thinks, furiously, _made it? You mean stole it, demeaned it, destroyed my entire life's work–_ he takes a deep breath, and focuses again.

“Maybe something like that,” he agrees. “Sometimes, people just need to be able to say that one last thing, get it off their chest, before they can move on. Before they can start to heal. It sounds like maybe, that's what you need.”

Peter's brilliant, but not that quick on the uptake, really. “I don't understand,” he says.

“What I mean,” Quentin says, as patiently as he can manage, “is that I could use that, if you wanted, to give you that one last time. Give you a chance to talk to Tony, to tell him what you're feeling. I know it wouldn't be real, it wouldn't fix how you're feeling, but maybe it would help, just a little.”

Peter stares at him, wide mouthed, frozen. “That-” he starts, his voice higher pitched. “That would be-” and then he stops, shakes his head. “I don't know if I'd be able to believe it,” he says. “I've got this thing, this...” he grimaces, “sense, for things that are wrong, and maybe it'd just feel wrong, just make things worse.”

“Hmm,” Quentin agrees, annoyed. If Peter can sense his illusions, that is a problem. But then again, he didn't seem to find anything odd about this bar, which was dumb as fuck, since even if it was real they should have been attracting more attention than this. “That might be true,” he says, carefully, “but then again, it might not be. There's no way to tell, though, without trying. In the end,” he adds, “what can it really hurt?”

Peter hesitates, still, and Quentin moves away, just a little, little bit, like he's adjusting, not intentional. Peter follows him. “I'm not going to make you, Peter,” Quentin says, puts a little disappointment into his tone, “or even push it at all, if you don't want to. It’s your decision.”

Peter groans. “It feels like everything lately is my decision,” he says, “but what if I decide wrong? How do I even start to decide on any of this?”

_God, teenagers._ Quentin wants so badly to roll his eyes.

“I can't tell you what to do, Peter,” he says instead.

“But you think it's worth a try,” Peter replies, pushing.

Quentin pauses. Careful, careful. “Yeah, I do. The way you talk about him, the way you're hurting … I think it'd help.”

Peter hesitates, hesitates, and Quentin pulls away again, a little more.

“Ok,” Peter says. “Ok, let’s do this.”

“You got it, kid,” Quentin says.

They end up going back to the hotel that Quentin's staying at, or at least maintaining cover by pretending he's staying at. Peter's jittery, growing more and more nervous the entire walk back. When Quentin locks the door and turns around, Peter's almost vibrating in place.

“Maybe this isn't a good idea,” he says, voice cracking.

Quentin goes to him, wraps his hand around the back of Peter's neck. “Stand by your choices, kid,” he says, and doesn't miss the way Peter shivers slightly at that. “That's one of the hardest things about growing up,” he tells Peter, “but people like us can't afford to flip flop once we've committed to something.”

Peter nods, shortly, and takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, you're right. Ok. How does this work?”

“Give me a minute, first,” Quentin says, “let me get a little of this off, alright?” he adds, gesturing to his ridiculous costume.

“Oh, sure,” Peter agrees, and then asks, “Do you need a hand?”

Together they get his cape off, and Quentin tosses it over one of the chairs. He unbuckles the chest piece and most of the armor, sets it with the cape. He rolls his shoulders, tilts his head back, and sighs; the stupid stuff is heavier than it looks. “That's better,” he says, left in just the mailed shirt and pants, bending over to pull off the tall boots as well.

“It doesn't look very comfortable,” Peter says.

Quentin shrugs. “Not like yours, no. Not that it matters.”

Peter's eyeing him, sly about it, curious.

“Why don't you sit right there,” Quentin says, pointing at one of the other chairs in the little sitting area. “Close your eyes and just wait until I say, ok?”

Peter sits, and closes his eyes, tenses more and more the longer he sits.

As quickly as he can, Quentin sets up a simulation, tries to wrap his mind around what he needs to do to get this right. He knows Tony Stark, knows how he acts and how he speaks and how he works, the arrogant, callous asshole. Knows the public face Stark can put on, when he's trying to con someone into giving him something. He can do this, he can fool one naive, desperate teenager.

He steps into the illusion, wraps it around himself and sits on the opposite sofa. Overlays his voice with Stark's.

“Peter,” he says. “Open your eyes.”

Peter jerks in his seat, and squeezes his closed eyes even tighter together, breath coming fast.

“Peter?” Quentin says, trying to sound concerned instead of annoyed.

Peter opens his eyes, finally, and Quentin smiles, that dumb half smirk that Stark had used all the time. “Hey kid,” he says, “miss me?”

Peter lets out a sob, claps his hands over his mouth, and lets out another, muffled, tears starting to run down his face.

“Hey,” Quentin says through Stark's mouth. “Don't cry, kid, you had to know I wouldn't leave you behind.”

Peter shakes his head violently, and then he's up, out of his seat, flinging himself against Quentin, arms wrapped around his neck and head pressed into his chest, half kneeling on Quentin's lap, clinging as he shakes with sobs. _Shit_, Quentin thinks, unprepared. Brings his arms up and wraps them around Peter. “It's ok, Peter,” he says, “it's ok, I've got you.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, his voice thick with tears. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

“It's ok, kid,” Quentin says, again, and holds him a little tighter. “Go ahead, get it all out.”

And Peter does, god, does he. It's endless, Peter sobbing against him, soaking Quentin's shirt and smearing him with snot, ugh. Clinging to him so tightly that Quentin's neck begins to hurt, like Peter's forgotten that he has super strength. Every time Quentin starts to think Peter's calmed down, there comes another round of tears. _Ugh, is it ever going to stop?_

Slowly, Peter's sobbing eases, and he starts talking, babbling, words running together and thick, half incomprehensible. Talking about how unready he feels, about how he can't possibly step into Mr. Stark's shoes, how he messed up when he went after the Vulture even though Mr. Stark told him not to, how he messed up when he turned Mr. Stark down even though he knew it wasn't really a test, how he messed up when he stayed on the ship even though though Mr. Stark made it more than clear he didn't want Peter there, and _for fuck's sake,_ why does this kid give two shits about Tony Stark, the way he's been treated?

It's typical teenager stuff, though Peter doesn't seem to realize that, like Tony didn't realize either, like there's absolutely no frame of reference for either of these idiots. A_m I really the most normal one here?_ he thinks, amused. Perfectly average, completely normal teenage brain shit, thinking everything they do is a mistake, a fuck up, thinking that everything happens because of them, the world revolving around their insignificant selves. If Peter's lucky, he'll stay alive long enough to grow up and realize not everything failed because of him, but because of Tony fucking Stark.

If he keeps up like this, though, Peter probably won't stay alive.

Eh, not his problem.

“I know,” Peter says, “I know I have responsibilities, I know that being able to do the things I can and not doing anything with them is a waste, is slacking off, and I'm sorry. I just – I never feel normal anymore, I never feel like there's anything I can have that's safe and simple and just, regular teenager stuff, you know?”

“You're not wasting anything by taking a break, Peter,” Quentin says.

Peter shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I know better, I do, I know I can't be selfish like that, in the end. People rely on me, people get hurt if I stop doing everything I can. You would never stop trying to help others,” and wow, Quentin desperately wants to laugh at that, like Stark ever did anything for others, like it wasn't all polishing his own ego.

“I know it's dumb,” Peter continues, “that I wanted to have a normal vacation, just hang out with my friends and tell MJ I like her, have this stupid romantic moment that she probably wouldn't even like. I can't keep being a kid,” and his voice catches, like he's about to start crying again, Jesus.

“It's not dumb,” Quentin says, hurriedly. “Regardless of what you can do, in the end you are a teenager, Peter. You should be able to enjoy regular teenage things without feeling guilty about it,” which, actually, is true. Quentin's surprised that he's actually feeling a little pissed about this. Yeah, it's wrong that Peter was given the glasses, because he's not responsible enough to have them, but it's also kind of wrong because Peter shouldn't have to be responsible enough, at his age. He should be thinking about dumb teenage shit, not about the fate of the world or whatever.

Stark really did a number on this kid.

“I believe in you,” he says, trying to get back into the twisty mind of Tony Stark, “I do, nothing will stop that. But maybe you're right, maybe you weren't ready for this much responsibility. Not because you've failed,” he adds, as Peter stiffens, “but because you shouldn't have to be ready. This isn't your fault, Peter. It's mine, because I didn't do enough to prepare you. I didn't leave you any backup.”

“No one can do it all alone,” Quentin adds, “and I should know that better than anyone.” Yeah, Stark should have, Quentin thinks, furiously, he should have seen that the only way he was able to be Iron Man and keep everything he had was because of all the people working for him, all the people he just took and took and fucking took from.

“Really?” Peter says, and there's such hope in his voice. This kid is just desperate to hand all this off to someone else; now, if Quentin can just get Peter to give it to him... “You don't think it's my fault?”

“Nah,” Quentin says, “so you've got some rough spots, some things to learn and work through. Welcome to life, kiddo. After all, not everyone can be as flawless as me.”

Peter stiffens, and Quentin thinks,_ shit._

“What?” he says, “What's wrong?”

“Mr. Stark would never say that,” Peter says, shaking his head. “That's not – he never believed that, that he was flawless. He wanted me to be better than him, do better than him. He was always, always trying to do better, he never believed that he was good enough and it was just – I could never understand why he thought that, with all he'd done.”

Jesus, where did the kid these ideas about Stark? It's like he's constructed this fantasy about who Tony Stark was, instead of the entitled, arrogant man-child that profited from everyone else's work. _Hero worship is a wild thing,_ he thinks, irritated, and takes a risk. Breaks the illusion, lets it fade around his body until he looks like himself again. “It sounds like you got to see a different side of him,” he says.

Peter glances up at the change in his voice, startled, and then stiffens a little, leans back like he's going to crawl off Quentin's lap. Quentin tightens his arm where it's wrapped around Peter's waist just a little. “It's ok, kid,” he says. “Look, I never knew Tony, you know? I just know what Fury's had to say, what I've seen when I'm out and about, and that's not the whole story, is it?” _Definitely not the whole story,_ he thinks, grimly. “Why don't you tell me about him? Tell me about the things he didn't show other people, the things he let you in on.”

“I think he did let me in,” Peter says, “I mean, I'm not sure, I didn't know him long enough to be sure? But people say things about him and it just sounds wrong, like they're talking about someone completely different, and I can't see why they think that.”

_Maybe because they were true,_ Quentin thinks, masterfully managing not to roll his eyes.

“Like what?” he asks.

“People were always talking like he didn't care about things, like he didn't care about people,” Peter says. “Like he was not careful enough, about collateral damage, because he just didn't care that much. But he did, he cared so much. He cared about every single person on the team, he tried so hard to keep them safe.”

And failed, Quentin thinks, in fact, caused them harm simply by existing in their vicinity.

“All those people that died while he was trying to stop something bad that was happening,” Peter continues, “they haunted him. He knew all of their names, all about them. All of them! He almost never talked about it, but he remembered them all,” Peter says, indignant. “And he felt like – he felt responsible for so much, things that weren't even his fault, things that totally were not his responsibility. He told me – told me more than once – that if I died, he'd feel like that was his fault, like he thought he made me go into danger? I don't get it, he never made me do anything like that, he told me not to even. Why would he think it would be his fault?”

_Because it fucking would be,_ Quentin thinks, _because he tricked you into thinking you were choosing things instead of just following Stark’s plans._ God, people are stupid.

Also because Tony Stark was a huge egoist, but Peter was probably incapable of seeing that.

“I told him once,” Peter says, “that if he'd really cared-” he gulps. “If he really cared, he'd be there, and then it turned out he was, he had been there, and he was angry – he was angry about what I'd done, but later, when I thought about it, I think he was angry that I thought he didn't care. He told me, sometimes, about how his dad acted, how Mr. Stark thought he didn't care about him, and he always got upset when he felt like he was acting like his dad.”

So Tony Stark had daddy issues, big fucking surprise, Quentin thinks. It's not like the rest of the world didn't figure that out ages ago, kid, you're just slow on the uptake.

“He watched over me,” Peter continues, god, like this kid has an endless supply of chatter in him. “He listened to everything I said and trusted me for no real reason, and he made the suits so – he overdid it so much, you have no idea, five hundred web options, because he thought that if the suit had enough stuff then I'd be safe.”

“And he saved me,” he says, his voice suddenly thick again._ Oh god,_ Quentin thinks, _please, please don't cry again, fuck,_ “He saved me over and over and over again, he saved everyone, but he saved me a lot,” Peter finishes.

“It sounds,” Quentin says, “it sounds like he really…” he breaks off.

“Really what?” Peter asks, muffled against Quentin's chest.

“It sounds like he really cared about you,” Quentin says, makes the effort to end that statement lamely, like he meant to say something else. Something he's sure Peter desperately wants to hear. Peter peers up at him, cautiously. “Let’s try this again,” Quentin suggests, and Peter nods, hesitantly. Quentin pushes a few buttons, and once again he's disguised as Tony Stark. Peter burrows back into his chest.

“Peter,” Quentin says, Tony Stark says. “I trust you. I do,” he states more emphatically, as Peter shakes his head. “I'm not – it's not about wanting you do one thing over another. It's that I trust you to make a good decision, whatever you do end up doing, whether that's using Edith, or waiting, or something else altogether. I believe in you. Sure, you're smart, kid, you're brilliant – one day you're going to outshine me, I'm sure of it – but you've got a good heart too. That was never me, you know? I always had to try to be better, and you just were. You've got this, Peter.”

And when Peter keeps shaking his head, Quentin tugs Peter away from his chest, ducks his head to catch Peter's eyes. “Hey, don't I know you?” he asks, teasing. “Don't I know you better than anyone?”

Peter jerks at that, nervously. Like he's hiding something.

Quentin just waits, smiling gently at Peter.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, and leans towards Quentin, who thinks, with a bit of surprise, that Peter's going to do it, he really is. Kid's got guts, he'll give him that, and then Peter's kissing him.

Well, attempting to kiss him, awkwardly and off angle and sloppy, like he doesn't have a clue what he's doing. But Quentin can fix that, and he tilts their mouths together better, kisses Peter back.

Who sucks in a breath and jerks back, away, his eyes wide, almost tumbling back off Quentin's lap before Quentin catches him. “I'm so sorry,” Peter says, babbles. “I'm so, so sorry, that was- inappropriate and wrong and you did not sign up for that and I really shouldn't have done that and,” his hands come up, cover his face, “I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

“Hey, whoa, calm down,” Quentin says, still as Tony Stark. “It's ok, it's hardly the end of the world. It's just a kiss, Pete.” Though it could be so, so much more, if he's reading Peter right.

Peter shakes his head, back and forth like a broken bobble head. “It's wrong,” he says, “it's so, so wrong, and you – Mr. Stark – would never, ever, ever.”

_He probably would,_ Quentin thinks, it's not like Tony Stark ever denied himself anything he wanted, even a little. And Peter's awfully, awfully tempting. He'd bet good money Stark had at least thought of it, once or twice.

“You really think there's anything he wouldn't give you, that you really needed?” he says, instead, and Peter gives up all resistance, just like that, so fucking needy. He falls forward, pressing up against Quentin, so desperate.

Quentin strokes his hair, tangling his fingers in and tightening them, just a little. _This is going to be fun,_ he thinks, a feeling of deep satisfaction settling into him.

Peter turns his head up, leans into Quentin's touch, his expression so open, so raw.

So fucking innocent

Quentin sighs, silently. Right. He's playing a role, he's dealing with a kid, he has to – he has to rethink this a little. Start with something small, easy, something that won't freak Peter out. Something he could imagine Tony Stark doing, willingly.

Tony fucking Stark probably wouldn't be as gentle as Quentin is going to have to be, but it's about what Peter expects.

“Easy,” he says, quietly, “you're fine, baby, calm down a little. Here,” he adds, “let's get this off you.”

Stark could have just gotten Peter's suit off with a touch, he thinks, probably has it keyed to his biometrics as well, but Quentin has to make do. He grabs Peter's hand, guides it up to the medallion in the middle of Peter's chest and presses it down, his hand over Peter's. The suit goes loose, suddenly, and he helps as Peter shrugs out of it, shoves it down around his hips.

Quentin runs his hands up Peter's chest; _damn_, he thinks, _Peter is awfully pretty._ Stark had been wasting an opportunity, having this available and not doing a thing with it. Peter whines as Quentin's fingers brush over his nipples, as he runs a nail over one, a little sharper.

“You're fucking gorgeous,” he says, “like a dream, kid.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, blushing fiercely, “I-”

Quentin reels him in before he can finish, kisses him silent. Lets him pull back just the smallest amount before he says, “I think you can call me Tony, kid.”

Peter just looks at him, wide eyed, apparently overwhelmed by such a small thing. Quentin narrows his eyes. He thinks he can nail this, that classic Tony Stark smirk, the one that says _come at me, I dare you._ He tries it out, looks at Peter and says, “Go on, Peter; say my name.“

And it works, perfectly, Peter sucking in a sharp breath, breathing out, “Tony.” He shivers, crowds closer. “Tony,” he says again, “oh god, Tony, Tony, Tony.”

Well apparently that's a thing for Peter, Quentin thinks, jeeze. The simplest shit gets him going, honestly.

“Yeah,” he says, “just like that, perfect.” Peter reaches for Quentin's shirt, tugs it out of his pants and shit, Quentin doesn't want him to do that yet; he doesn't think he can replicate whatever Peter might expect of what Tony Stark's chest might look like, after that much trauma and surgery, and that's one thing Stark had been very, very careful about keeping private.

_Distraction time,_ Quentin thinks, and lets Peter shove up the bottom few inches of his shirt before he slides his hands back down, to Peter's hips. He doesn't want to let Peter get up, doesn't want to give him a chance to think, to freak out again. He hooks his thumbs in the material of Peter's suit and shoves it down, a little more, stretching it around Peter's hips, until Quentin can see the hair at Peter's crotch, the skin of his cock. Peter sucks in a breath as Quentin reaches in with one hand, and lightly, gently, slides his fingers under the length of Peter. Holds him as his other hand stretches the suit over the tip, until it's free of constraint, bobbing up between them.

He lets the suit snap back, just under Peter's cock, pushing up on it, and Peter lets out a sharp cry, rocking forward on Quentin's lap.

“There you go, baby, that's better, isn't it?” And Peter nods, his hands tightening on the back of the couch. “Look at you,” Quentin says, glancing down and stroking the tips of his fingers over Peter's cock, “so ready, so eager. Been looking forward to this, kid? I know I have,” he adds, and Peter closes his eyes.

Whispers, “Please, please Mr. Stark-”

“Ah!” Quentin says, pulls his hand away.

“Tony,” Peter says, hurriedly, “I meant, please, Tony, please, I've wanted this so bad,” his voice catching at the end, and for Christ's sake, of course this kid would manage to start crying while having sex.

If he does, Quentin will fucking lose it, seriously.

He wraps his hand around Peter's cock instead, fully, nice and firm, and Peter moans, thrusts up into his hand. “Oh,” he gasps, “oh that's-”

Quentin strokes him a few more times, and then says, low, amused, “Going to help me out, kid?”

“What can I do?” Peter says, instantly, eager, “What would you like?”

Quentin tugs Peter's hand down, rests it over his own cock, straining against his pants. He doesn't have to do more than that, doesn't have to say a single thing, Peter already fumbling at the button and zipper, exposing Quentin. He hisses as he cock springs free, and then jerks as Peter tentatively runs his fingers down the length of it. “Fuck, kid.” he says, not sure if he really in persona or not, not really caring. “Fuck, yeah.”

He shifts, sliding Peter forward and himself down, a little, until their cocks are rubbing against each other, Peter's already slick with precome. Quentin rocks them together, Peter making stifled little noises. He wonders if that's how Peter sounds, on his own, when he gets off, trying to keep silent and failing.

Maybe he thinks about Stark when he does it.

“Go ahead,” he says, “make some noise if you want,” and Peter looks at him, wide eyed. “Who's going to hear?' Quentin tells him, and then, “Who would possibly stop me?”

Peter moans raggedly at that, louder, and then all but yelps when Quentin closes his hand around both of their cocks, pressed together. Peter's slightly shorter than Quentin, but thicker, a nice weight in his hand, an excellent pressure against the underside of his cock. Quentin strokes them, hard and pretty fast, Peter squirming and thrusting, letting out much better, much louder moans and gasps and whines. Quentin can feel Peter's cock twitching in his hand, so hard and so close and Peter's not going to last at all, dammit.

He slows, a little, lightens his grip on Peter while he presses his thumb harder against his own cock, just right, and looks at Peter, takes in all of him, debauched and innocent and fucking _his_, Quentin's, not Tony Stark's, _his_. “Tell me, Peter,” he says, “tell me, is it all you hoped for, all you dreamed of?”

“Yes,” Peter sobs, “yes, yes, I wanted-”

“Tell me,” Quentin says again, “tell me, honey, what did you want, you can tell me everything.”

“I wanted this,” Peter whispers, “I wanted, wanted you to touch me and hold me and make me feel so amazing, wanted to be so good for you that you'd forgive me, that you'd want to keep me.” He swallows, thickly, and _god, this is such a fucking delight,_ Quentin thinks, almost dizzy with the tender bits Peter is handing him, stroking both of them harder. “I wanted to save myself for you,” Peter says, harsher, “I wanted to let you take me, make me all yours,” and then he's shaking, coming thick and hot all over Quentin's hand, over his cock, and it's so perfect, so satisfying, watching Peter fall apart, completely undone by getting what he wants, what _Quentin_ made possible for him.

That thought alone is enough to push him over the edge too, and his hand tightens almost painfully around them, starling a whine out of Peter as Quentin tenses all over and comes.

When he catches his breath, Peter is draped over him, limp. Quentin's hand is covered in sticky, thick cum, as is Peter's chest, and Quentin's shirt. He thinks, for a moment, of seeing if he can get Peter to clean up him up, get him to lick their mingled spunk off Quentin's hand; that's a pretty fucking thought.

He wipes it off on the couch instead, deciding that he probably can't pull that out of Peter yet.

“You were so perfect,” he tells Peter, who shivers, tries to snuggle in closer, ugh. “So fucking perfect, even better than I imagined, so, so good for me,” he says as he feels Peter's breath hitching in his chest. “I'm never going to let you go.”

“Yes,” Peter says, still dazed, “yes, yes, please, yes.”

This is not a position they can maintain forever, though. Peter really doesn't want to move, but Quentin is insistent. “Come on, sweetheart, we'll be so much more comfortable on the bed. You want that, right?” And when Peter still barely moves, Quentin tries out his best Tony Stark pout. “I can't stay like this, my poor body can't take it,” he says and that at least has Peter trying to scramble up, even if he's clumsy as hell about it.

He stumbles over to the bed, Quentin following him, Peter shoving his suit the rest of the way off before he lists over, face plants into the bed. So melodramatic, honestly.

Quentin flips him over, runs his hands up Peter's legs. God, it would be so nice, right now, to just take Peter, pin him down and bend him in half and fuck what little sense he has out of him.

So, so nice.

Quentin sighs. Sometimes it feels like he never gets what he wants, at all. Because there is a fucking point to this little exercise, and that's to get the Edith glasses. To get Peter to see him as a viable replacement for Tony Stark –_ as if he wasn't already, goddammit_ – to see him as the only decent replacement. Someone responsible, someone smart, someone who cares.

Who cares about Peter, more specifically, though that's hardly a good criteria. Fucking teenagers.

“Hey,” he says, “still with me, Peter?” Peter nods, slowly, his eyes closed. “You ok?” Quentin asks, “Everything good? Nothing hurting?”

Peter grunts, slightly, and Quentin forces a laugh at that. “Come on, honey,” he says, “gotta use your words. Talk to me.”

Peter sighs heavily and blinks his eyes open. “I feel so good,” he says, very quietly, “I feel amazing, I feel like I never want this to end.”

“Doesn't have to end,” Quentin tells him, Tony tells him, and he actually means that a little. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, to keep doing this with Peter, putting on a mask from time to time to fuck such a lovely young thing, to watch him fall apart and offer up his vulnerabilities and be grateful to Quentin for it, mmmm.

“I don't know,” Peter starts, his brain beginning to kick back into gear, and that's the last thing Quentin needs.

“Shh,” he says, “don't think.” Reaches up and presses his thumb against Peter's bottom lip, reddened, wet. “You start thinking, and then you start overthinking and doubting everything, Pete, and I just got you where I want you.”

Peters eyes flutter shut, his breath rasping across Quentin's hand. He twitches, and presses back into the bed. He's already half hard again, and Quentin isn't quite sure if that's primarily a teenager thing, or an enhanced body thing. Or maybe some delightful combination of the two, but he himself isn't anywhere near hard again. _Ugh, what would Stark do,_ and please can he never have to think that phrase again, fuck.

More importantly, what would make Peter feel the most indebted, the most cared for? What would feature in Peter's secret, hoarded little fantasies? Hmmm.

Quentin licks his lips, testing a theory, and when Peter's eyes catch on Quentin's mouth, his own lips parting just a little, Quentin knows he's got it._ Bullseye,_ he thinks, _yeah, you would want that, wouldn't you, to be the one in power for once._ Sick little freak.

He smirks up at Peter, says, “I think you're going to like this, kid,” and wiggles down the bed a little, until his face is hovering over Peter's cock.

“Wait,” Peter says, “wait, are you going to-” his voice raising with each word, ending on a yelp as Quentin takes him in his mouth. “Oh god,” Peter babbles, “oh, oh fuck, Tony, Tony, oh god.”

_Yeah,_ Quentin thinks, _I thought that would get to you, kiddo. Bet you've been dreaming about this for ages._

Blowjobs are really not his favorite activity, taking far too much attention and care, messy and annoying. He's the one who usually ends up hurting at least a little by the end, and that is the opposite of what he likes.

Still, it means he can get Peter off again, quickly, in a way that gives him some fantastic leverage if he needs it.

Plus, he won't have to think up more nonsense about what a good boy Peter is. It's probably worth it for that alone.

It doesn't shut Peter up, though, as he continues to moan and babble and plead for more, more, please more, Tony. He comes, finally, not soon enough for Quentin, and Quentin subtly spits out the bitter come, wishing he dared go get something to drink, ugh.

Peter's drifting though, almost like he's in some sort of altered space, and it's probably risky to leave him like this. Quentin drops the illusion, what with Peter's eyes being closed, and takes a moment to finish undressing, kicking his pants off and pulling his shirt over his head before he crawls up and lies next to Peter. Peter sighs, and rolls into Quentin, nuzzling against his skin, limp and sated. He's shockingly warm, actually rather nice, a soft weight in Quentin's arms.

He thinks Peter might be starting to fall asleep, which is not ideal given that it's looking like he's going to have to continue this nonsense. “Hey,” he says, “don't fall asleep on me, Peter, come on, honey.”

Peter sighs, protests by curling into a little ball, knees against Quentin's stomach. Quentin sighs as well, and tries to give him some time, stroking Peter's hair and staying still, letting Peter touch him.

When Peter finally uncurls, he's blushing, bright, bright red. “Um,” he says. “Um, thanks, Mr. Beck,” he says, “I – I guess?”

“You guess, huh?” Quentin says, with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean,” and Peter turns his head, tries to hide his face in the sheets. “I- I mean, thank you for what you did, that was- you were really, really great, I just-”

Quentin runs his hand over the still exposed skin of Peter's face. Reins in his irritation; he still doesn't have those glasses, noting useful to show for this night so far except a little blackmail material. “Just what, Peter?” he asks, gently.

“It's really,” Peter says, “it's just, really fucked up, isn't it. That I- I wanted that. With him. That I wanted it enough to … to pretend, like this. God that's so fucked up, that's so wrong, isn't it.”

“Aw, honey,” Quentin says, because this kid is just, A fucking plus at tying himself up in knots. “It's not that fucked up, really. It's actually pretty normal, I'd say.”

“What?” Peter says, turning his head to look at Quentin, incredulously.

“I mean, sure, not the being able to role play it in such a convincing way,” Quentin says, “but the desire to do so? The wanting to fuck Tony, when he meant so much to you? Sounds like a pretty natural reaction to me.”

Peter looks shocked. “You really think so?” he says, voice wavering.

“Sure,” Quentin says, “you're special in a lot of ways, Peter, but that's not one of them.” Peter laughs at little at that, breathlessly. “I hope it helped,” Quentin adds, because Jesus, the kid should be thanking him profusely, not needing to be convinced he wasn't a freak.

Even though he definitely was.

“I think it helped,” Peter says, looking down. “Thank you, really.”

_Well, that's a little better._ “I'm going to get cleaned up a bit,” Quentin says, “take a shower of something. You still going to be here when I get back?”

“I will,” Peter says, and Quentin pries himself up, heads to the bathroom.

God, he's so close, if he can just get the kids to make up his damn mind – Peter's indecisiveness was working against him now as much as for him. Quentin grinds his teeth in frustration as the hot water runs around him. He's got to be so careful, he's not sure how much more he can push Peter. He needs those fucking glasses.

When he comes out of the bathroom, with just a towel around his waist, Peter is still lying back on the bed, looking at the ceiling. “Hey, Peter,” Quentin says.

Peter sits up, looks at him, and holds out his hand. Holds out the glasses.

“I think you should have these,” he says, and all Quentin can think is _fuck, yes!_

“What?” he asks, as though confused. “Peter-”

Peter interrupts him. “I'm just a kid,” he says. “I don't know anything about leading people, or tactics, or making things on the level Mr. Stark did. I don't have any real experience – almost everything that's happened to me has been by accident, or mistake, and most of the time it's my fault, and ends with more people in danger than if I'd done nothing. I'm smart, but being the smartest doesn't make you right, or good.”

He looks down. “I'm just a neighborhood guy, looking out for the people on the street. I'm not ready for these sort of threats. But they exist, and someone's got to deal with them, so we don't have time to wait for me to grow up.” He stops, takes a deep breath. “So I think, I think you should have them.”

Quentin sits down on the bed next to him. It's so hard not to just snatch the glasses from Peter. “I'm not going to ask you if you're sure,” he says, “not after all that,” and Peter smiles at him, a little shakily. “But are you ok with this? Tony did pick you.”

“Mr. Stark trusted me to make good decisions,” Peter says. “Maybe that didn't mean me. Maybe it did, but I can't know that, with him gone. All I can go off of is what I think he might want, and I think …” Peter hesitates, then plunges on. “He always wanted me to do better, but he also wanted me to have a chance to be a teenager. He told me, over and over, how much he regretted dragging me into things – into Germany, into space, all of it. It never mattered how much I told him it wasn't something he dragged me into – so I know he wouldn't want me to feel trapped by these.”

He lifts the glasses, offering them once more. “Actually,” he says, “I've already transferred control. So, uh, if you won't take them, you'll have to long enough to transfer them back.”

Quentin hesitates. Swallows hard, trying to keep his triumphant grin off his face. “Alright, Peter, I hear you. I understand,” he says. Slowly, reaches out and takes the glasses, trying to ignore the shiver as he finally, finally holds them. “I don't know if I should say thank you,” – _yes, yes, yes!_ \- “or not,” he teases, “because you're right, these are a huge responsibility. Enough that it makes me nervous too.”

Peter smiles at him, then, so fucking innocent, so stupid. “You'll do great,” he says. “I believe in you.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says. “You're something else, kid.”

Inside, his whole body is lit up with glee, with satisfaction, finally, _finally_ He puts them on, Edith greeting him. Looks at Peter. “What do you think?”

Peter is pale, staring at him. “It's a good look,” he says, finally. “Like they were made for you.”

Quentin turns, looks in the mirror at the foot of the bed, and fuck, he looks … he looks a lot like Tony Stark.

Yeah, he'll be transferring Edith into something else ASAP.

Looks back at Peter, who's watching him. “Yeah, not bad, kid.” Leans in for a last kiss before he finds some excuse to head out.

Peter is warm and open and eager under him, kissing back with more enthusiasm than skill, and Quentin hesitates. He's got what he wants, now; there's not that huge of a rush. Maybe he can take a little time for himself, enjoy Peter without working so hard for it.

“One more for the road?” he says, quietly, and Peter blushes, bright bright red.

“Ok,” Peter whispers, “yeah.” Quentin smiles, and starts to tap out the command to mask himself as Stark once again.

“Wait,” Peter says, “you don't – don't do that. Um. I want to see you.”

Quentin stills, cocks his head. _That's interesting._ “Whatever you want, Peter,” he says, “is fine with me.”

He stiffens slightly as Peter pulls at the glasses. “Take them off,” Peter says, “I want to see you.”

Oh, Quentin thinks, well, this makes sense then. Kid wants to distract himself from what they'd done earlier, wants a memory of sex with someone else. Quentin rubs his thumb along Peter’s chin. “Alright,” he says, and takes them off, carefully, sets them on the table beside the bed, carefully, where he can see them, watch them. Carefully.

He dips his head to kiss Peter's neck, his shoulder – god he wants to just bite down, see just how long it would take for those marks to fade – and Peter blurts out, “So if it's whatever I want, can we … uh, will you...”

_Damn, this kid is awkward,_ Quentin thinks, with a sigh. “Hmm?” he hums into Peter's shoulder.

“Will you fuck me?” Peter blurts out, all run together into one word so that it takes a moment for Quentin to figure out what he's asking. He stops, startled.

“Fuck, kid,” he says, because yeah, he was not expecting that, but the image that flashes through his mind, of Peter pinned under him, taking his cock and begging is irresistible. “Yeah, yeah, we can do that.” Turns his head and kisses Peter’s jaw.

Takes a second and shoves that image out of his mind for a moment, because – “You've never done anything like this, right?”

Peter shakes his head.

Yeah. Sigh. “Ok, honey, just, let me sort us out here,” Quentin says.

He pushes himself back until he's sitting, settled against the headboard, and gestures at Peter. “Come here, Pete.”

Peter's awkward and blushing, nervous, as he crawls up the bed to Quentin, stops kneeing next to him like he's not sure what to do next. He's already half hard, though. Quentin reaches out, taps Peter's knee.

“Just like before,” he says. “Put your leg over me,” and Peter does so, kneels up, over Quentin. “There you go,” Quentin says, and runs his hand up Peter's back, pulls him a little closer.

Quentin isn't quite hard again yet, but he has a good feeling that by the time he's finished opening Peter up, he will be. He settles Peter onto him, hands on Peter's waist as Peter wiggles a little, tries to hold his weight off Quentin.

“Honey, you're a tiny little thing,” Quentin tells him, and pulls him down harder. Tilts Peter's chin up and kisses him, carefully guides him from nervous and awkward to something much nicer. He can feel Peter's cock bumping against his stomach, can feel the way Peter twitches when it does.

There's some lube still sitting on the nightstand, from when Quentin been enjoying himself the night before. He leans over and grabs it, pops open the lid.

Peter watches him, biting his lip.

When Quentin slowly starts sliding one finger inside him, Peter shivers, makes this perfect little gasping noise, his ass tightening around Quentin's finger. Quentin brings his other hand back up, sets it at the base of Peter's skull, tangled in his hair, and pulls him forward a little further, until Peter's face is settled into the crook of his neck, his breath hot and uneven against Quentin's skin. “Bad?” he asks, gently twisting his finger.

Peter shakes his head against Quentin, slightly. “Just weird,” he says. “Really, really weird.”

“Mmm,” Quentin hums, bends his head and licks at Peter's neck. “That's fine. It gets nicer, I promise.”

He's careful, disgustingly gentle, as he opens Peter up, so slowly. _Definitely no doubt he's a virgin,_ Quentin thinks, and there's a deep satisfaction in that, another thing that Quentin gets first. He keeps up a distracting pattern of kissing and biting, little, tiny bites, barely enough to mark even a normal person.

He has to bite lightly, or he won't be able to stop himself.

Peter's starting to relax, starting to sigh and moan and push back against Quentin's fingers, just a little. Quentin should be more patient than this, really, but three is enough, is more than enough, and he's completely hard now, his cock pressing up against Peter's crotch, caught underneath him.

“Ok, sweetheart,” Quentin says, pulls his fingers away. “Up you go.”

Peter raises himself up, hands on Quentin's shoulders, and he's awfully pretty like that, flushed and dazed, his hair mussed and his bottom lip red from where he's been worrying at it. Quentin's cock bobs up, free, and bumps against Peter's ass.

Peter looks down at him, his eyes wide.

Quentin puts his hands on Peter's ass, spreads him wide, open. “Slowly,” he tells Peter, “like this,” and guides him down, until the head of his cock is pressing against the tightness of Peter's hole. Wiggles Peter's hips just a little, and presses him down, further, keeping himself still.

Peter's breath catches, hitches, his eyes gone wider, staring at Quentin like he's trapped, his mouth opening silently as he slides down, so fucking slow, Quentin's cock encased in the hot, tight feel of him.

Peter pauses, a little over halfway down, swallows hard, his body tensing a little, starting to really feel the way it burns, the intrusion. Quentin gives him a second, but he's not about to let Peter stop entirely. He thrusts up, just the littlest bit, and Peter gasps, jerks further down in response.

“Yeah, just like that,” Quentin tells him, “there you go,” and that's all Peter really needs, isn't it. Someone telling him he's doing right, he's good, just the littlest scraps of praise and Peter's pushing himself further, trying harder.

Peter slides down the rest of the way, letting his body weight take over near the end, until Quentin's buried in him fully. _God, he feels good._

Peter's gone tense, stiff, shaking a little, his breath coming in shirt, fast pants. He's gone too far, too fast, and Quentin let him.

It's not smart, but Quentin lets himself have this, this long, long moment of Peter shivering on his cock, hurting, fighting against his body to not pull away, trying to be good even as it rips him open. Quentin waits, and waits, soaking it in, watching Peter through half closed eyes. Waits, wanting so, so badly, to fuck Peter like this, to yank him up and thrust up into him, tip him back and fuck him hard and fast while Peter fights, under him, shaking and sobbing and not getting away, because he wants so badly to be good. Waits, until Peter, trying so, so hard to be good, takes a deep breath and starts to move, starts to tilt his hips up like he's going to ride Quentin.

Quentin puts his hands back on Peter's knees. “Hey, wait,” he say, “no need to rush, honey.” Slides his hands up Peter's thighs, until they're resting around Peter's waist, holding him in place. “It's not supposed to hurt, Peter.”

Peter nods, dips his head down like he's embarrassed, ashamed. His cock has softened, barely hard at all now. Quentin runs his hands up Peter's sides, gently, and back down, as soothing as he can manage, over and over. Eventually, Peter begins to relax again, his breathing evening out, settling more of his weight back onto Quentin.

“Like this,” Quentin says, his hands back on Peter's hips. He shifts Peter, not up or down at all, but in tiny circles, grinding them together, slowly.

“Oh,” Peter says, startled, clenching but not tensing up again. “Oh, that's- that's not bad.”

“I think we can do better than not bad,” Quentin tells him, and tediously expands the circling motion, until Peter's guiding it as much as Quentin is. “Try this,” he tells Peter, stilling him for a moment and adding a little twist in, moving Peter's hips in more of a figure eight pattern.

Peter closes his eyes and tilts his head back, and grinds into that one easily. “Wow,” he whispers, “that's really good actually.”

Quentin leans forward, just a little, and nips at Peter's neck. “Keep that up,” he says, “that's perfect,” and Peter twitches. Quentin grins, internally. “Yeah, baby,” he adds, “just like that, you're being so good for me.”

“You- you don't have to keep doing that,” Peter says. “Saying things like Mr. Stark might have. You don't have to keep pretending.”

“Petey,” Quentin says, finding with some surprise that it's actually true, “I'm not pretending anything.”

Peter whimpers at that, and grinds down harder, fully hard again. Repeats, and repeats, and when Quentin starts gently thrusting into him, just a little, Peter shifts with it, rocking back and forth now instead, lifting his hips just a little each time he rocks forward.

“There you go,” Quentin says, and brings his hands up to cradle Peter's head, to pull him forward, further, and kiss him, Peter clutching at Quentin's shoulders as he does so, gasping into his mouth as Quentin starts to move with him, enough to make each tiny withdrawal feel like much, much more.

“God, Peter,” he says, “you feel so good, you're such a dream, honey.” Peter closes his eyes, and Quentin rolls his. “You're doing so well,” he adds, working to keep the impatience out of his voice, “being so good, just perfect, yeah.”

Peter's whimpering now, sliding up and down Quentin's cock in earnest now. He's probably close, Quentin thinks, and this could be really, really fun if he plays it right. He puts his hands back around Peter's hips, tilts him a little more, and then a little more than that, until the next time Peter slides down, he gasps, choked, and goes still.

“What,” he says, high pitched, “what was- oh, please, do that again.”

Quentin grins at him, hopes it doesn't come off as too smug, and thrusts up into Peter, finally having the angle to slide against Peter's prostate. “Oh my god,” Peter cries out, and thrusts back, hard and frantic, unable to match a rhythm as he seeks, desperately, to keep feeling like that.

“Come on, Peter,” Quentin murmurs, “come on sweetheart, come for me, just like this, yeah, you can do it, come on,” and Peter moans, his thrusts frenzied, and comes, messy and hard, curling forward into Quentin as he shudders through it.

Quentin is patient as he holds Peter, because there's something even better waiting for him, if he's careful.

“You're still – you haven't come yet,” Peter says, slurred, “what-”

“Think you're ready?” Quentin asks, “Think you can take this?” with just a little hint of a challenge, a little bit of concern.

“Yeah,” Peter says, dazed, “yeah, whatever you want.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, thinks, “that's what I wanted to here, Peter, Jesus,” and thrusts up into him, harder than before.

Peter gasps like he's been punched, still over sensitive and limp, and moans. He stays like that, relaxed in Quentin's arms, making the most beautiful noises, desperate and slightly pained and guttural, like they're being forced out of him with every thrust Quentin makes, harder and faster as Peter just takes it, like a champ.

Quentin gives himself one last treat, a reward for having been so very, very patient, as he comes, leaning forward and sinking his teeth into Peter's shoulder, hard, tasting blood, and Peter whines, sobs, sharp and short.

When he's back to himself, able to put back on his Mysterio persona, he brings a hand back up to Peter's head and holds Peter against him, gently. “Fuck, you were so good,” he whispers into Peter's ear, “so, so good for me, you're going to be an absolute treat for someone, someday.”

Peter shivers, barely, as though he's too done in to even respond much.

Quentin lets him recover a bit, running over in his mind what's left to do tonight. Luckily, Peter starts to stir before Quentin runs out of patience, shifting a little and pulling away from Quentin, Quentin's cock sliding out of him.

“You'd better get back before someone starts searching for you,” Quentin says.

Peter groans, grumbles, but crawls off him and stands up. Then freezes, his face startled. Quentin laughs

“Yeah,” he says, “that happens, kid.”

Peter makes a disgusted face at him and awkwardly scuttles into the bathroom.

Quentin picks up the glasses, put the them on. “Edith,” he says.

“Yes, Quentin?”

“You record all that?”

“Yes, Quentin.”

“Great. Isolate Parker and stick that in a password protected private file, my voice print only.” That's a simulation he's going to want to run again and again.

“Yes, Quentin.”

He feels like Stark's AIs used to be more interesting than this

Peter comes out of the bathroom. Quentin watches him, relaxed on the bed, as he dresses.

“You've got a good heart, Peter,” he says. “Whatever else happens, remember that.”

Peter smiles at him, hesitantly. “Thanks, Mr. Beck. And um, thanks for … well, everything.”

“My pleasure,” Quentin says, and shockingly, at least some of it was.

“Maybe we'll end up working together sometime,” Peter says, pausing at the window.

“I don't think there's any maybe about it, kiddo.” Peter grins. “I'll see you around,” Quentin adds, and Peter's gone.

Quentin stares out into the night after him.

Poor kid.

He kinda hopes he won't end up having to kill him, somewhere along the way.

“Edith,” he says, “let's get started, shall we?”


End file.
